Scapes
by Raietta
Summary: A take on the whole Samantha rescue idea


TITLE: Scapes

AUTHOR: Raietta

FEEDBACK: tellarren@yahoo.com 

ARCHIVE: That would rock. E-mail me and tell me where. 

SUMMARY: A take on the whole Samantha thing. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a very not-mainstream story. One of those "What the hell is going on, here?" pieces. I would call it 'literary', but that sounds just a tad pretentious. =0) The story is obscure and nonlinear, because that's the kind of stuff I love writing most. So, if you don't like image-based fics, or if you never liked "Beloved" by Toni Morrison, which greatly influenced this, get on with you. This will only bore you, and that's not good. And if "Plot? What Plot?" fics bug you, for heaven's sake, don't flame me, please. You've been warned. As for those of you who _do _like nonlinear, slightly bizarre stories, enjoy! 

*** 

SCAPES

By Raietta 

And who is that one who lets out the dogs? We sit in the silence and wait. 

They are barking. Foam like lace drips from their jaws, and there are many teeth. Some are running, and others are still, sniffing out the wind and other, darker things. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

We have been waiting forever. Some cry, sometimes, and are silently comforted. We do what we can. We play nursery games, sing rhymes, recite jokes. The chicken and the road. That sort of thing. 

There are nothing but pools of blackness, here, and wire cages that we are put into. The pain blossoms and sparks and we are alive with it, alive and this is the only real time, the time with the black night syrup. Then we are put back into our places like dolls on shelves. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

Razor blades along our flesh, we sing with it, our eyes implode. 

The one who lets out the dogs is wearing blood like a coat, and others who are blackbirds talk with him. Magpies chattering. We listen, but the words make no sense. 

The words these ones speak never make any sense. We are puzzled, repeating the odd strings of sounds, but the game soon lags. 

Now there is a terrible darkness, and the concrete floor is cold and hard. We lie and wish to scream, but that is not allowed. There are pretty fireworks. Like lollipops from that other place. Like zoo balloons that float high away. 

Sometimes one of us goes like those balloons, is cut away and floats into the sky, and is gone. They do not come back, and soon their bodies leave, too. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

Now it is too much. Rats come out of the walls and pour over us. They crawl over us and eat at our fingers, gnaw on our knees. Strips of flesh are torn away and gobbled down. We are devoured until there are only bones left, and then the rats go away, little furry waves receding. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

We hum together. It is a pretty thing. 

There are songs we used to sing. One of us remembers something called a "blueprint," and "repidiograph pens." Another remembers "legalese." These things are nonsense, and we are delighted and laugh. There is Jack and Jill. Jack falls down and breaks his crown. Jill starts to cry. It is our own puppet show. 

We are puppets. 

Old Dame Dob, please come and patch us up. Our crowns need sewing up again. We are Dumpty, and we have tumbled from our wall. 

Where are all the King's horses and men to glue our pieces back together again? 

Milk is poured, white on the floor, over our eyes, a soft cotton blanket of nothingness. 

And what is that one which is nothing, that sits with us and is black and slick? Our eyes swirl with mud. Worms are in our veins, sliding along and wriggling, sliming up our insides. They swim in our hearts and lungs and mouths, and we try to cough them up. 

Needles come and pierce us and turn our skin inside out. 

Green fish and yellow cats come and watch. 

The one who holds all the buttons leans down and nods. He speaks more strange words, but we are in too much pain to listen. 

We are torn into pieces, and flung into the wind. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

We are broken toys. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

Now there is a sharp, bright light, and an angel comes and is yelling. He is tall with dark hair, and his eyes are no one true color. He is shouting, and bright. He starts to unlock the wire cages, and we are happy and grateful. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

The tall angel finds one of us, and falls to his knees. He is crying over this one of us, saying things we do not understand. We are sorry that he is so sad. 

Shadows run and spill. 

He is cradling the one of us, but we are unable to help. 

We sorrow. 

Then another angel comes, small, a woman with hair as red as fire, as autumn leaves, and holds his shoulder. She speaks soothing words to the man, and he shakes his head and will not move. 

The dogs are released. They slaver and run, dark ghosts, silent as night. There is blood on their tongues, which they loll. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

Rats come and go. Now it is all bright lights, and the rats are running away. We watch them go, and are a little sorry to see them leave. They were friends, in a way. 

The oil that is Other Than Us that sits in our veins and listens will not go. We wish it to leave, but it will not. It likes it here. 

We watch things transpire. 

Sirens in the air, wailing, wailing, like the ghosts of murdered children. 

The woman, who has blue eyes, holds the man who is holding the one of us. She sings soft words to him, and we are comforted. 

There are black beetles with shimmering blue wings. We watch them. 

Then there is a flash, and other men come, men with guns as large as dogs, and strange faces. They converge, and dissipate. A switch of fire is thrown. 

The meaningless words that are oceans of sound funnel down, and have meaning. 

We listen to the seraphic man scream at someone, screaming things like "Justice" and "Revenge" and "Samantha," but we are not paying much attention. 

It is too late for things that can be put into words. 

The spell is not broken, yet. We need small stones to lead us back home, but there are none. We are patient. The hazel-eyed man is still screaming, hoarse, pointing to the one of us that he hurts for, and the woman with the bright hair holds his arm and sings soft words to him. They are one another's shadows. 

The one of us is far away. We wonder at her, and she shrugs. She remembers words like "home" and "brother," but the meaning behind them is gone. 

Crows sweep down, and then flap away, cawing. They take pieces of the earth with them. 

There are giants here, with flames for eyes. 

It is all right. We are patient. 

We sit in the silence and wait. 

END 


End file.
